


Stubborn Love

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14510649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: In which Steve Rogers is afraid of love.





	Stubborn Love

**Author's Note:**

> I run a tumblr under the same name. I update there much more frequently. Just wanted to archive some stuff here. Hope you like it!

“I’ve lapped you three times. Pick up your pace.”

Feet slap pavement as a broad shadow overtakes you, momentarily blocking the warmth from the evening sun on your back. 

You grit your teeth as Steve slows beside you to match your speed, his stride effortless and unlabored. His words aren’t a chide. There is no arrogance behind them. They are clinical. Matter of fact. Commanding.

They piss you off.

Through burning lungs you eke out a response, “You’ve lapped me,” you pause, gulping air between your words, “because you are a genetically...modified…experiment. Congratulations. Put me against your ninety pound asthmatic ass. I would...smoke you.”

Steve cuts a sidelong glance you do not miss, though you cannot see his face to read the emotion behind it. He’s silent for a stretch, syncing his footfalls with yours. The tension snags, taught like a rubber band, between the two of you before he finally resumes his normal stride and pulls away.

“Rain’s coming. Last time around,” he calls over his shoulder as the distance between you grows. You can’t tell for sure, but his words seem plagued by defeat.

Good.

It hasn’t always been this way between the two of you.

In fact, of all the seasoned Avengers who gave time to contribute to your training, Steve was once your favorite. 

Natasha was strict and methodical. Clint too focused on precision and accuracy tasks, frustrating you more often than not. Bucky constantly overestimated your limits, pushing you to points of exhaustion previously unknown.

But Steve? Steve would accompany you on a run where you set the pace, engage you in some elaborate story while steadily increasing his speed, and have you besting your previous time without even thinking about it.

Steve would spot you in the gym, hands carefully placed and attention sharply focused, all the while exchanging opinions with you on favorite songs and movies from whatever decade he was currently exploring. 

He knew your limits, and was smart enough to build you up without burning you out. You’d appreciated that about Steve. More importantly, you’d appreciated his friendship

Last you’d discussed, he’d been working his way through the eighties and nineties. He’d had a lukewarm response toward Nirvana - too gritty, Steve said - instead preferring bands like The Cranberries and Oasis. 

More often than not, your conversations carried on from afternoon training sessions to late night lounging in the common areas of the compound. Occasionally you’d watch him sketch, even reading aloud to him per his request. Steve enjoyed contemplative fiction, autobiographies and a lot of Robert Frost. You preferred Sci-Fi, a genre too real for him, and Whitman, who Steve occasionally found a bit too bawdy but who you loved reading on the off chance of making Captain America blush. 

It wasn’t unnatural for you to end up huddled under the same blanket, illuminated by the glow of one of the many large flat screens spread throughout the living spaces. Steve’s movie taste was extreme. If it didn’t make him laugh or cry, he was grossly uninterested.

The world would imagine Captain America enjoying guns and explosions, war movies and cyborg assassins. 

You knew Steve Rogers preferred Lloyd Dobler. He rooted for Jack and Rose. He could never hear the Geto Boy’s ‘Still’ without quaking in silent laughter.

Rain pings your shoulders, pulling you from your thoughts. Steve has long disappeared, leaving nothing but the path to the gym ahead of you.

By the time you enter the massive window lined room, your clothes and hair are soaked through and a deluge is pounding down around you. You pause in the entryway to catch your breath. Steve is nowhere to be found, the only two occupants your fellow team members Sam and Bucky, sparring and pounding each other into a corner mat closest to you.

You try to watch them fight, two strong lethal bodies in a dance for dominance, but you’re distracted by the absolute ridiculousness of their attire. 

It’s Bucky’s schtick, normally, wearing clothing geared toward the super fans of his best pal. It’s a gag that brings life and humor into the eyes of the occasionally brooding soldier. Today it’s a vintage style ringer, heather red and tight, emblazoned with an image of uniformed Steve and the words ‘Train like a Captain’ across the front. 

And unlike most days, Sam has seemed to join in on the fun. His shirt is bright blue, also obscenely tight, with white lettering, ‘I’m not saying I’m Captain America, I’m just saying Captain America and I have never been seen in the same room together.’

You almost want to laugh, imagining Steve’s reaction, but then your chest lurches, because imagining Steve’s reaction to anything hurts now.

“Aceso!” Sam calls from the mat, noticing you for the first time. You roll your eyes at the silly nickname as he approaches you. Bucky nods to you from the floor, a swift leg sweep from Sam that knocked him onto his ass.

“Is there a t-shirt contest going on I don’t know about?” Sam asks, fake ogling the wet shirt that has now become transparent against your skin, the vibrant galaxy print on your sports bra peeking through.

You smile, “Yes. And you lose,” you answer, “You look like an idiot in that”

Mock offense crosses his face. Bucky chimes in from the floor.

“Makes no sense,” he says, retying the loose hair that has fallen around his face, “they’re in the same room all the time.”

Your laugh is short, “Point.”

Sam rolls his eyes, mumbling something about t-shirt police before turning his attention back to you and pointing to a cut below his eye, “Take care of this for me? Robocop over there accidentally got carried away.”

“May not have been an accident,” Bucky quips, jumping onto his feet. He flexes his metal arm, plates shifting and mechanisms whirring.

“Jesus, why don’t the two of you just kiss and get it over with?”

“I would, Dollface, but he’s saving all his moves for tonight,” Bucky approaches you, and you take the opportunity to snatch the towel he has draped around his shoulders to dry off your hair. He cuts you a look but says nothing.

“What’s tonight?” you ask Sam, a shit-eating grin on his face that can only mean one thing, “You have a date?”

“I have THE date,” he says, “I’m talking 5’11, long legs, Miss New York, sitting the bar exam date.”

“Wow. Sounds too good for you,” you tease, earning an appreciative grin from Bucky.

“Oh she is. Way too good. Which is why I’m going to need you to fix the face.”

“What if I say no?”

His face falls, “Why would you do me like that? Don’t do me like that.”

“I’m not rewarding you for being a bunch of brutes. What if that damages your character?”

Bucky grins, “Yeah, Sam. What if?”

“What if I put you on your ass again, Tin Man?”

“Brute language! That’s brute language,” Bucky looks to you, pointing at Sam, “There it is. You heard it.”

Sam whips his towel at Bucky, snapping it against his thigh. You can’t help but laugh.

“What if she thinks you can’t take a punch?” Bucky goads, dancing away from him, “Don’t think Miss New York wants a bird boy.”

Sam turns a accusatory glare your direction, “Your fault,” he says, “This is your fault.”

He snaps his towel, narrowly missing as you sidestep him, your laughter increasing.

“Sam, this is important,” you dodge him again, “What if she’s some secret assassin, tasked with the job of taking you out?”

“And you walk in, all fresh faced and over eager,” Bucky chimes in as you duck behind him to avoid Sam.

“She’s going to take your weak ass out in a second. And I for one refuse to write your eulogy.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bucky says, “plenty of flying references.”

“That’s some morbid shit,” Sam tries not to grin. You and Bucky wheeze with laughter. He swipes at the soldier, catching him off guard and causing him to topple backward. His shoulder clips yours as he’s going down, sending you to the ground as well. 

Sam assesses whether or not you’re okay, quickly deciding your breathlessness is due more to your laughter than the fall itself. He smirks at Bucky.

“Second time I’ve put you on your ass today.”

“Hope you’re a match for New York.”

“What’s going on?”

Laughter dies quickly in your throat. Your heart beats one hard thump as Steve approaches the three of you. Bucky rolls backward off the mat and jumps stealthily onto his feet. He offers you a hand, effortlessly pulling you up when you accept. Damp hair clings to your neck and face, and you catch Steve’s eyes for an awkward moment as you try to brush it all to one side.

“These two think they’re clowns,” Sam answers as Steve turns toward him. His eyes dance down the front of Sam’s shirt. Sam’s mouth splits into a wide grin.

Steve raises his eyebrows, but says nothing as he turns to Bucky, who only shrugs. You can read both the annoyance and amusement in his eyes. The exasperation over their attire mingled with happiness that his best friend is having a good day. 

That affection for Steve Rogers that is now laced with pain begins to bubble up in your chest.

“We’re only concerned about your safety, pal,” Bucky says to Sam first, and then to Steve, “landed a date with a girl a little out of his league. We think it may be too good to be true. She’s in it for the intel.”

Steve’s eyes flit briefly to you and then to Sam, who says, “Transformer’s just mad he has no game.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks into a smile, “Your only game is terrible nicknames. What if we’re right?”

“And what if I just keep putting you on your ass?”

“Ah… third time you’ve used that one in what? Five minutes,” Bucky turns to Steve, “What say you, pal?”

Steve shrugs, claps Sam on the shoulder, “You can’t live your life based on ‘what-ifs’, buddy. Take on whatever comes your way. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.”

You stifle a choking noise in your throat. Steve doesn’t miss it. You avert your gaze.

“You should tell your girl that,” Sam quips, nudging your shoulder, “she’s a little too paranoid.”

And what was supposed to be a joke sends your heart into a free fall. 

Your. Girl.

Your face must visibly fall. Bucky claps a hand onto Sam’s shoulder and mutters, “Jesus, you cannot read a room.”

You cut your eyes to the floor, missing his silent apology. You don’t hear the words that are spoken next, but when you look up again, Bucky and Sam are retreating to the other side of the gym, and Steve’s eyes are trained on you.

“What was that?” He asks, clipped words punctuating the silence. Confused, you draw your brows together.

“The noise you made,” he presses. And you remember, and the awkward tension in your body is replaced with a bitter resentment.

“Nothing,” you answer as you spot the roll of hand wrap he’s holding. You reach out for it, and he drops it into your open palm.

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” he answers.

“Don't use that voice with me.”

“What voice?”

“You know what voice,” you answer, making quick work of wrapping your hands, “that ‘Captain America is here to talk about your problems’ voice. Save it for your PSA’s.”

“I don’t-“

“You can’t live your life based on what-ifs,” you cut him off, mocking that characteristically Captain America inflection. Steve blinks, pressing his lips together.

“It’s bullshit,” you say, “Pseudo inspirational, hypocritical bullshit. I’m not here for it, Rogers. Not today.”

If your words hurt him it doesn’t show. He pulls his shirt over his head, light blue and stained dark at the shoulders with rain, and cracks his knuckles.

No gloves today.

You mimic his actions, dropping your wet shirt onto the mat with a thwap, and take your stance in front of him.

The first punch you land hits squarely in his open palm. It stings, but in a satisfying way. You throw another punch. Another. And soon, sweat starts to bead your forehead

It was all Steve’s fault..

He was the one who’d started it.

He was the one who’d kissed you.

You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment your friendship had evolved from platonic and simple to something more, but suddenly you’d found yourselves constantly seeking out the other. If one of you entered a room, the other would become more alert. If one had an issue, the other would take their side. You couldn’t count the number of times you’d looked up, only to catch Steve’s eye from the other side of a room. The smiles he gave you in those moments would make something in you soften. The entire team seemed to notice. Everyone but you. And Steve.

The night everything changed started out perfectly normal. Steve had returned from a mission earlier in the day and sought out silence in one of the smaller lounges you’d practically taken over, piling the low tables high with all your favorite books. 

He’d quietly settled into the spot normally reserved for him right beside you, and pulled out a sketchbook he’d previously left behind.

You’d sat in contented silence for what felt like hours, the scratching of pencils on paper the only sound, before Steve finally spoke.

“Read something.”

Out loud, he’d meant. To him. It was a request. Gentle. He’d sounded tired.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Anything,” he’d murmured, lifting his paper to his mouth to blow away the stray graphite. You’d watched the gesture. “Anything you like.”

You’d thumbed through the anthology in your hands, picking out a few passages you knew Steve was partial to. Then you’d found a favorite of yours.

“Passing stranger,” you’d begun, voice soft and sleepy in the quiet, “you don’t know how longingly I look upon you. You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking. It comes to me as of a dream.“

“I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.”

You’d shifted your gaze to Steve, who’d perfectly recited the line. He was watching his hands, clasped in his lap, his sketchbook forgotten on the arm of the sofa. You hadn’t remembered the cease of pencils on paper.

You’d listened as he finished the poem, gaze resolutely on those hands, the smallest of smiles on his lips. As if he’d known you were going to eventually pick that poem. As if he’d been ready. He didn’t look up until he’d finished the last line. And his eyes had been so soft. And so blue.

“Thought you weren’t a fan of Whitman’s,” you’d smiled, proud you words were steady when your nerves were not.

Steve had smiled back.  
“I like this one,” he’d answered, “this one is you. Sometimes I feel like part of me has known you forever.”

You hadn’t remembered how you’d gotten closer to him. Or which one of you had set the book aside.

“I’m not a stranger, though,” you’d said.

“No,” Steve had answered, “You’re not.” And finally, his lips had met yours.

“Keep your stance,” Steve commands now, tone starkly different from the one in your memory. You miss a punch, stumbling forward slightly before catching yourself.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined kissing Steve Rogers before that night. Hell, it had probably always been in the back of your mind. But when it finally happened, even your most vivid imagines could do no justice. 

His kiss had been gentle at first, timid and shy, like the way he’d smile at you when you caught his eye. He’d pulled you onto his lap. His hands were on your face, in your hair, slowly undoing the buttons down the front of your shirt. His mouth moved from yours, to your jaw, your neck, your chest. Strong hands gripped your waist. You’d thought you could do this for the rest of your life, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Gentle kisses turned heated, and heated kisses turned slow, languid, sweet. You’d fallen asleep together, nestled on that tiny couch.

“You’re distracted,” Steve says now, dodging your jab. Your momentum carries you forward. He grabs your shoulders to steady you. The contact sends fire rocketing through you. You jerk away.

“You’re annoying,” you answer, adjusting your feet and throwing another punch. Steve’s face is expressionless.

Expressionless like it had been after that night. You’d woke alone. Steve hadn’t only left the room, he’d left the compound. Another mission. You’d thought it strange he hadn’t said goodbye. When you’d text him and he hadn’t answered, you’d figured it was typical Steve. He was a poor texter, still not quite used to the technology he had access to. When multiple days passed without any word from him, your outlook began to dim. Steve would have answered you. He would have used his downtime updating you on newly discovered music or some hilariously awful Captain America slogan Bucky or Sam had invented. Something was wrong. And not from a safety perspective, you would have been alerted of that immediately. Something was wrong between the two of you. 

Your suspicions were confirmed when he’d arrived home a week later and had not sought you out. When you had healed the cuts, scrapes and burns on Nat, Sam, and Wanda, but Steve had stayed resolutely away from you. He’d stopped catching your eye. He’d found reason to leave the room whenever you entered. He’d spent your training sessions aloof and silent. And it had hurt. A deep, aching hurt that had festered into bitter resentment.

Steve calls your name. You blink, his eyes are on you.

“Tell me what it is you want to say.”

“Shut up,” you answer, fist smacking his palm, angry your emotions are so readily visible on your face.

“Say it,” he presses, “I’m right here.”

You shake your head, your punches land harder. Faster.

“Give it to me,” Steve demands, his tone foreign to any you’ve ever heard from him.

“Stop it.”

“Get it out!” He’s shouting. Steve Rogers, gentle, calm, is shouting at you. You can’t process anything else around you. Not the rain, pounding harshly against the gym windows. Not the lightning crackling or the thunder rumbling. 

Not Sam or Bucky, who’ve both lapsed into a startled silence across the floor. Who are both wondering whether or not they need to step between the two of you. Your only focus is Steve. Steve Rogers, and the tears he’s threatening to spill from your eyes.

“Fuck you!” You shout, and it feels good to finally say it out loud. 

“Fuck you, Steve. And fuck your bullshit. You’re selfish. A coward. Your entire LIFE is nothing but ‘what-ifs’!”

Steve takes a step back, you advance forward. Sweat rolls down your neck, your hits more erratic as you unload into him.

“What if I am an asshole today?”  
Punch.  
“What if I have no regard,”  
Punch.  
“for the people I hurt?”  
Punch.  
“What if,”  
Punch.  
“I refuse to see what’s in front of me,”  
Punch.  
“because I am too,”  
Punch.  
“busy,”  
Punch.  
“chasing,”  
Punch.  
“GHOSTS!”

Steve sweeps his leg beneath you, and you hit the ground. Hard.

Your knuckles sting. Your arms ache. Everything hurts. You pull your knees to your chest, and struggle to catch your breath.

Above you, Steve is panting, too.

“You done?” He asks, and this time you do hear it in his voice. The hurt. 

You throttle any amount of sympathy your heart attempts to feel toward him.

“No,” you mumble into your knees, “your beard is stupid.”

And you don’t look up. Because you’ll be damned if Captain America sees you cry.

“Only focus on what’s in front of you, and you’re going to miss what’s coming up to knock you onto your ass.”

You don’t answer. You don’t do anything but grasp your legs against your chest and breathe. Steve walks away. Off the mat. Across the gym. Out the door. The door he slams so hard that the window of glass inside shatters.

________________

 

Bucky Barnes loves Pop-Tarts. 

The chocolate kind, frosted white on top. He can polish an entire box off in one sitting, crusts first, before stacking the frosted centers into a multi-layered, sugary monstrosity.

It’s a comical contrast to such an intense looking man.

It’s how you find him alone the next morning, seated on a kitchen barstool, hair piled messily atop his head. He’s shirtless, a vulnerable gesture for Bucky, but a sign of how comfortable he is truly becoming around his bizarre collection of super friends.

You shuffle past him and to the refrigerator, pouring yourself a tall glass of grape juice.

He’s quiet, you can feel his eyes on your back. Assessing you. You avoid his gaze as you step back around the bar to take the seat on the other side of him. There’s a bruise on his shoulder. Large and deeply purple and painful looking.

Instinctively you place a hand on top of it, and Bucky nearly jumps from his chair.

“Sorry,” you whisper guiltily, forgetting how easily he can startle. Warmth spreads from the center of your palm out through your fingertips, and the tension in his shoulder relaxes. When you pull your hand away, no trace of the bruise remains. His skin is smooth. Unmarred. Perfect.

“Thank you,” he says. Genuine appreciation.

You hum in response, finally taking your seat. You continue to avoid his eyes, wishing you could heal the puffiness beneath your own, the redness that lines them. 

You sigh, and your voice is a little too casual when you ask, “Heard from Sam?”

“Well,” Bucky begins after a beat of silence, “he missed our run, so he either had a really great night or the pageant queen took him out like we predicted.”

You can’t even smile. You swallow half your glass of juice before replying, “I never fixed his cut.”

“He didn’t want to bother you,” Bucky says. 

You fill in the gaps.

He and Sam both had been in the gym yesterday. They’d heard your fight with Steve. They’d seen him walk away, shatter the door glass in his wake. They’d heard the first real, painful sob rip from your throat as you sat there, huddled alone. 

When they’d tried to speak to you, you’d barked from your spot on the floor, “Dont!” And they had listened, quietly backing out of the room to give you your space. Space to cry out every tear you’d ever wanted to shed over Steve Rogers.

“It’s not my business…” Bucky begins now, his breakfast pushed to the side and temporarily forgotten.

“No…” you say quietly, “it’s not.”

Bucky sighs, gripping the edge of the marble bar top. His tongue touches his lip, as if debating his next words.

“I’m saying it anyway,” are the ones he chooses.

He says your name, and you finally look up at him. Blue eyes. Like Steve’s.

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky says, his forehead wrinkles, “He is...he has never been able to talk about feelings. It’s never been easy for him, not even with me. I’ve kind of had to figure him out on my own, I reckon I’m pretty good at it by now.”

Bucky’s tongue sweeps his bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth. He sighs through his nose, as if debating how much to give away.

“I don’t know everything that’s going on between the two of you,” he says, “but I do know you scare the hell out of him.”

You blink, brows drawing together in question. Bucky looks uncomfortable, like it’s absolutely not his place to be saying such things, but then his eyes pass your tear stained face, and again he sighs.

“Listen,” he says, “between the two of us, Steve and I, I’m the more damaged one, right? Overwhelmingly so. That’s what everyone sees. I know it, it’s okay. Steve’s Captain America, right? Selfless with conviction. Unbothered, ever pressing forward.”

Bucky waves a hand. He shakes his head. He laughs a clipped, almost bitter laugh.

“But there’s something Steve had going into that ice that I didn’t. Someone to lose.”

 

_________________

 

Bucky's words stick with you over the next few days. And as you ruminate on them, your heart begins to hurt for an entirely new reason.

Not for yourself anymore. But for Steve.

Steve, who sacrificed his own future to save the world. Who was confronted with that lost future when he was dragged back into the world seventy years later. The world had changed. His future had changed. But Steve had remained the same.

And he’d had to look into the eyes of that lost future. He’d had to see, old and frail, the majority of her life well behind her. A happy life. A life that hadn’t included him. He’d had to put her into the ground. Mourn her loss all over again.

And the world had expected him to carry on. Fight the battles that were not his own.

You don’t want to be the world. You don’t want to hold Steve to your expectations. You don’t want to be like those who wish him to behave as a perfect, unbroken man. 

Because he isn’t.

And you love him. 

A stubborn, unyielding love. A love that, more than anything, wants to see him happy. 

So you stop. You stop trying to sting him with your words. You stop walking around looking so hurt. You don’t go out of your way to avoid him. You don’t shut him out of conversations. If he says something, you listen. If he happens to catch your eye, you offer him a smile.

And though it’s not like before, the tension between the two of you eases.

You’re all called into the Briefing Room one afternoon, new intel on a Hydra sleeper cell. You know that it’s a mission you won’t be tapped for, and feel an abject sadness as one of the files is slid across the table to Steve.

Bucky also receives one. And Sam. And Nat. Two weeks. And they all leave in the morning.

You focus your gaze on the tabletop beneath your clasped fingers, the sparkle of mica flecked throughout the granite. Eyes bore into you from across the room. Steve’s. And you can’t look up. Not right now. Not with the fresh sadness over his imminent departure weighing so heavily upon you. You always stress over missions. And you can’t put that on him. You won’t.

He doesn’t eat dinner with the team that night. Probably prepping. Steve’s always prepping. His absence hurts all the same.

The rest of the team is in good spirits. Laughing. Drinking. Sam is giving a recount of his fourth date with the woman whom he’s now referring to as the future Mrs. Wilson. It’s absurdly normal. Like none of them will be putting their lives on the line very shortly.

You excuse yourself early. Bucky is the only one to notice, acknowledging you with a small, non-pressing smile. 

You like Bucky.

You change into your pajamas and climb beneath your blankets, adjusting them until you are comfortable. You can hear the team’s muffled laughter down the hall. You listen for a long moment before whispering into the darkness.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

The A.I. blips to life, acknowledging you by name. Your question sounds feeble on your lips, “Where is Steve?”

Silence, cold and dark, presses upon you. Finally, she responds.

“Captain Rogers is located in the North Lounge.”

Your heart thumps. The North Lounge. Where you used to sit with him and read. Where you’d watched him sketch. Where you’d argue all night over the redeemability of an irredeemable character. (No one was irredeemable to Steve) Where you’d sit and say nothing at all.

Where he’d kissed you. 

You imagine him there now. Alone. What was he doing? And was he waiting for you?

“Shall I send him a message?” The AI questions.

You stare into the silence, pulling the covers tighter around you, “No,” you answer finally, “thank you.”

You oversleep the next morning, nearly missing the departure of the quinjet. You tear through the compound, racing barefoot across the grass, cold and wet with dew, to the launch bay. 

The entire way, you rehearse the words you stayed up way too late the night before coming up with. But when you spot Steve, alone just inside the hangar, they all leave you.

“Hey Rogers,” you call, coming to a stop beside him. He turns to you, surprised, his forehead immediately creasing with worry.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

You wave your hand as if to say ‘nothing’ as you pant to catch your breath. You resolve to return to your running routine.

Steve drops his duffel bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. He says your name, uncertainty still in his tone.

You shake your head and straighten to look at him, “I uh...I settled on my top five,” you say finally. Lamely.

He looks confused, still worried as he takes in your disheveled appearance.

“My movie list,” you continue, “I finally narrowed it down to five. The ultimate in cinematic brilliance. I’m proud of it.”

Silence stretches between the two of you as your breathing settles back to normal. It’s not what you’d planned to say. Not at all. You feel like an idiot. Surprise registers across his face, his lips press together. His eyes meet yours.

“Please don’t tell me Encino Man is on there.”

His tone is serious, but there's a light in his eyes. One you’ve desperately missed. 

“No wheezing the ju-uice,” you answer in the most grave, defensive manner you can muster.

For a moment his face is expressionless. Then his lips are pressed together again. His shoulders are shaking. And, finally, Steve is laughing. A boisterous, vibrant, beautiful laugh that makes your heart soar and sting at the same time. His eyes crinkle, his hair falls forward onto his forehead.

And then your arms are around him, tightly wound around his waist inside his heavy leather jacket. The laughter dies in his throat. His body tenses. And then his arms encircle you, and he fiercely returns the embrace.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it’s more rushed than you wanted it to be, but it’s the only way you can get it out, “For what I said. Everything I said. I was hurt, and it wasn’t fair for me to blame you. You aren’t responsible for managing my feelings.”

You take a breath, leather and pine and soap permeating your senses, “You’re a good guy. The best I know. And I’d rather be your friend than nothing at all,” you break your hold on him, and step back to smile a watery smile.

“So…” you hold a hand out to him, “friends again?”

Steve glances at your hand, then up at you. His eyes are soft. Sad, even.

“Yes,” he says, and it’s strained, “Always,” and he forgoes your hand for another hug. It’s hard and strong and brings your feet momentarily off the ground.

And then he’s being called from inside the quinjet, and he has to go. He sets you down and grabs his bag again.

“See you in two,” he says, eyes regretful as he ascends backward up the ramp. 

“Be safe,” you answer.

He manages to pull a smile, “Sure. And hey,” he says, “reconsider that list before you make me sit through it.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “No way. It’s set in stone, Rogers.”

You don’t set off for your room again until the quinjet is long out of view.

Two weeks pass agonizingly slow. You don’t expect any communication from Steve. The mission is important, and the team has to lie low. Still, you find yourself constantly checking your phone.

When it becomes too much for you, you enlist Clint’s help with training. It’s grueling and hard and at times frustrating, but it keeps you distracted. 

Train and sleep. Run. Throw. Hit. Run. Run. Sleep. 

You smile and nod at Wanda, but can not focus on her attempts at conversation. 

You forget to eat until your stomach growls in protest. 

You forget to mentally tick off the days since you last saw Steve. 

You forget everything that is not training or sleeping or breathing.

You are spaced in the kitchen, half heartedly sipping some noxious, post run concoction invented by Clint when F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice pings overhead, calling your name. 

“The quinjet is set to arrive in thirty-three minutes,” the AI broadcasts, “I’ve been asked to request your presence at the unload.”

Your heart thuds hard against your chest as you are thrust back into the world of the living. Your legs ache. Your ribs are sore. The taste in your mouth is awful. Damn Clint and his spirulina.

“Asked by whom, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Sergeant Barnes.”

Not Steve.

You are alone in the room. Dread fills your insides, worming its way between all those sore, aching places. Your presence has only been requested at the unload once before.

When Nat had been hurt.

Thirty-three minutes. Now that you were feeling again, now that you were present in the moment thanks to F.R.I.D.A.Y., thirty-three minutes felt like an eternity. 

You couldn’t just stand there and wait. The time would never pass. You hop into a hot shower, brush the taste of algae from your mouth, and slip on a plain jersey dress for no other reason than it’s comfortable and easy on your aching limbs. When you can’t stand the wait any longer, you make your way to the unload and wait for you friends to arrive.

If someone was hurt, you try to rationalize, that meant they were not dead. That meant you could heal them. 

You think of Sam. Of Nat. Of Steve. Your heart flutters with worry. 

Bucky is the first down the ramp. He walks with a slight limp. A nasty burn runs the length of his right cheek.

You rush forward to meet him, your eyes quickly assessing the damage.

“Sight for sore eyes,” he grins, wincing as he does so. 

But the smile eases something in your chest. He looks awful, but he’s smiling. And smiling Bucky means this is the worst of the damage.

“Come on,” you say to him, “let’s get you fixed up.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, “not why i asked you here. ‘M fine,” he adds when worry crests your face again, “we’re all fine.”

He tucks his hair behind an ear, and smiles again, it’s boyish. Like the photos you’ve seen of him from the 40’s, “I’m just helping to hurry along the inevitable, Doll.”

He begins to walk away motioning for you to stay. Confused by his words, you turn back to the ramp. Sam and Nat climb off next, both looking a little rough around the edges. Sam claps your shoulder as he passes. Natasha gives you a sly smile. And then, like Bucky, they’re gone.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you swear it threatens to leap right out when you again turn back to the ramp. To Steve. And he’s watching you.

His suit is dirty. Face soot stained and hair mussed. Bucky’s words ring in your ears. A sight for sore eyes.

He saunters down the ramp. It’s slow. He looks tired. A bit world weary. But he smiles at you. He stops at your feet and drops his bag. 

“What if,” he says, and it’s quiet enough you have to lean forward to hear him. He licks his lips. Presses them together. Shakes his head and smiles and continues on, “What if I tell you how I really feel?”

Your breath catches. You feel weak at the knees. Still, you grin, “Can’t live your life based on what-ifs, Cap,” you answer, “Gotta take what comes your way. Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best.”

Steve grins again. And it’s so wide his eyes crinkle.

“Where did you hear that?” He asks.

You shrug, “Some guy. Acts like he has all the answers to life’s big questions. He’s cute, though, so I-“

And you don’t finish, because he kisses you. And it’s like the first time he kissed you, but it is so much more. It’s giving and needy at the same time. Gentle and intense. Sultry and painfully sweet. He wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you off the ground. You arms encircle his neck, your legs his hips. If kissing is a language, Steve speaks the most beautiful words.

You swear you hear a catcall in the far off distance. Bucky. You laugh against Steve’s mouth. He pulls away and smiles at you. And those eyes soften everything.

“I love you,” he says.

And again, Steve Rogers takes your breath away. He touches his forehead to yours, nose to your nose. He refuses to set you down.

“You are amazingly intelligent. Witty. Kind. Strong. Devastatingly beautiful. And I am in love with you.”

Your smile is so wide your face hurts. You reach a hand up to his, brushing away the stray hairs blown forward by the wind. You press a kiss to his forehead and whisper, “Thank you.”

His arms tighten around you. And when you look at him again, his face is somber, eyes touched by sadness. Regret.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry for being too much in myself to consider your feelings. I’m sorry for being too afraid to acknowledge just how much I love you. How long I’ve known. And the truth of it is it’s terrifying. To know how much I want to be with you. To wonder if you wanted to…”

He trails off. ‘Be with me’ you know he means to say. ‘To wonder if you wanted to be with me.’ And it makes your heart ache, because it’s a little piece of that broken, imperfect Steve the world never sees.

You lean your forehead against his again, “I do want to, Steve. I thought that much was obvious.”

His lips curve into a timid smile as you bring your hands to either side of his face.

You press your lips to his briefly, and smile, “You are amazingly intelligent. Witty. Kind. Strong. Devastatingly beautiful.”

He laughs, breath warm against your lips, “Those are my words,” he says, “You’re just using my words.”

“They’re good words. And I'm a little overwhelmed, here. I just need a minute to think of my own.”

“Think of them later. There’s only one thing I want you to tell me right now.”

“Your beard’s not stupid. I was lying when I said that.”

He laughs again. And his eyes crinkle at the corners. And he is so achingly beautiful, “Two things,” he amends.

And you lean back. Because you want to see that beautiful face. The eyes, the nose, the mouth. You want to see it all when he hears you say,

“I love you.”


End file.
